Jus in Rescue
by May Glenn
Summary: AU story in which Sam's psychic powers develop stronger, faster, and with some additional abilities. When Dean is captured, Sam will stop at nothing to get him back, even if Dean doesn't like his methods. Rated T for strong language.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: AU story in which Sam's psychic powers become more advanced more quickly, and in different ways. Also Sam is OOC, but a believable result of having phenomenal cosmic powers. Demon powers are also very AU. Basically all sad excuses for some cuddly h/c! Late season one, but except for the appearance of Meg, no references to canon that pins down when it has to take place._

_Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me. Probably a good thing, too! _

It was dark in here. Too dark to read by without squinting. And cold. There was a utilitarian metal desk, like you'd find in a Noir cop's office, and papers. Papers everywhere, some organized, some loose, shifting in the breezeless air like they were alive. There were shelves of books and notebooks stuffed with extra leaves, and file cabinets stuffed to the brim with files and notes and sheets of paper of all sizes. Dean Winchester sat at the desk, leafing through a meager folder labeled _Options_ with the disinterest of one who has already been through it many times and found nothing remotely interesting.

Someone else was in the room. Dean snapped the file shut and stood up. "Who's there?" he demanded of the darkness, and, before it answered, "Get out of here—you can't—"

Even before Dean registered that he had attacked, lashing out on autopilot, he was already down, like a kitten who had made the unwise assumption that it could take down a puma. He was on his face in the desk, his arms pinioned behind him in a vicelike grip.

"Ow!"

"Easy, Dean, it's me."

"_Sam_?"

That didn't make it any better. In fact, Dean was pretty sure that that made it _worse_.

"Wha… That doesn't—what the _hell_ are _you_ doing here?"

Sam had released him, and Dean pushed himself upright and turned around, retaining the fighting stance. He moved so that the desk was between him and Sam. Sam shrugged at him, innocently, as if to ask what was wrong.

Dean stammered with rage and confusion before he could formulate words. "What the hell—get out of my head!" he finally spluttered.

"Relax, Dean, I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam said, matter-of-factly.

"That is not the issue here: get out." Dean had circled the desk and now shoved his brother, hard. This was the caliber of strength that would at any other time have thrown his little brother to the ground, but in here psychic-boy-Sam barely took a step backwards. Confused and angry, Dean shoved him again, with all the strength he could muster. Defending, Sam grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, shoving him back to the desk.

"Dude, chill. I'm just having a look around."

Dean rolled his eyes, incredulous. "That's just it. This is _my head_."

"I'm trying to figure out where you are, Dean. I'm trying to help."

"Sam, _I_ don't know where I am. I've been unconscious!"

Sam released him again, with disinterest. Dean trembled—with rage or fear he couldn't tell. Sam was rummaging through the leaves of paper on the desk. Some of them were large 8 ½" by 11", typed, others handwritten, some on sticky-notes, some on envelopes or scrap paper or napkins.

"Sam, stop it!" Dean said, trying to cover up the papers, but Sam ignored him:

"These are just surface thoughts. Where do you keep—" he looked around before his eyes lighted on the file cabinet behind the desk labeled _Senses_.

"Sam, don't! Damnit, Sam!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Sam!" Dean snapped awake, jolting himself painfully. He groaned, cursed. As much as he wanted to be out of that—nightmare?—the waking world was worse.

His shoulder still hurt like hell, which wasn't a great surprise since there was still a metal rod stuck through it. He was trying not to cough, but he knew it was in his lung, or at least pressing against it, every time he took a breath. All he could do was rock his head back and forth and cuss, however, because his arms were tied to the armrests at his sides, and his legs bound together in front of him.

"Ooh," Meg cooed, stepping up from behind and laying a hand on his head. He knew better to flinch away, even though the touch of a demon was the last thing he wanted to feel right now, on top of everything. "There, there," she said, continuing to caress him with sultry fingers that were anything but appealing. "I know it hurts, Deany baby," she said, taking the rod warningly in a fist, "but you understand it's my insurance, don't you?"

Dean decided not to reply.

She smiled and sat down next to him, continuing: "Your baby brother wouldn't dare try me while I have you here with me. Like this."

"And you wouldn't dare try _me_ if I wasn't tied up and didn't have a fucking spike through my chest."

She glared, covering up a pout with a half-smile of _Yeah, right_.

He shrugged, with one shoulder. It was worth a shot: "It's all right, I get it. You're scared of me. Fine. I'd be scared of me, too: I might throw up on you," he finished, laced with enough honest sarcasm to avoid a serious pistol-whipping, but enough venom not to be ignored completely.

Dean didn't actually think it would work, so when she huffed and she puffed and she began to untie him, he was genuinely shocked and pleased. But when she laid her hands over his eyes, he realized, yeah, it was too good to be true. Pain flicked at him like lightning, sparking behind his eyeballs, and he decided to make a scene. With his one good arm he grabbed her wrist, and, moving expertly despite his wound, flipped her. He landed a solid kick before he turned and ran. He had seen an open window, and made for that.

Then everything went black.

Not just dark, or dim, or starry, like he had begun bleeding out again—though he was sure that had happened, too—but actually, completely black. He blinked, staggered, rubbed his eyes. Nothing. Maybe the train had gone through a tunnel. He turned around so that he faced where Meg was and tried to defend himself, straining his ears for the sound of an attack.

Someone grabbed the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back. "Well, now, Dean," he heard her whispering in his ear, "that wasn't very nice of you to do after I untied you. But then, it wasn't nice of me to blind you, either."

"You what?"

"Takes the fight right out of you, don't it? Just like that." She snapped, for emphasis.

The train wasn't coming out of any tunnel. He was blind. A blind hunter in a nest of demons. Dean felt suddenly very cold, and as if she had cut off both his hands and dumped him in a shark tank.

"Here's that open window you were going for." Dean heard the sound of a window being slammed all the way open, and he felt a greater rush of air. "Go for it if you'd like. But we could be on a bridge over a hundred-foot drop, and you wouldn't know. Or you could get your head cut off by a passing tree if you stuck it out at the wrong moment. As funny as that would be, Daddy would be so mad at me if you were to get hurt—" she yanked at the rod, and Dean felt a rush of warmth down his shoulder "—more." Using the rod like a lever, she lowered him, sweating and blinking, into a seat. He gripped the armrest with the one arm he could still command.

"Okay, okay, we'll play your way. I don't know what your plan is for me**,"** he growled, through clenched teeth, "but I'm guessing since I ain't dead yet, you want me alive. Any chance your daddy might take it amiss if this little leash you've got me on happens to, I don't know, kill me before we get there?" A beat as she considered, enough time for Dean to regret his words, and then excruciating pain as the rod was ripped out of his chest without adieu or mercy, and then there was nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke tied to the chair—again? But he wasn't on the train. And he could see his arms.

"What the fuck?" he said.

Sam didn't even turn around. A small flashlight in hand, he rifled through the file cabinet.

"You tied me up in my own head?"

"You kept attacking me."

"Yeah. 'Cause you're _in my head_."

Sam stood up and sighed. "Dean, it's me. Don't you trust me?"

"Not this far! Jesus Christ, Sam! What's not to understand about this?"

There was a ruffling of papers on the desk as a new, clean sheet with lines on it fell from nowhere onto the top of the pile. Sam picked it up—ignoring Dean's protests—and read it.

"I'm scaring you?"

"What? No! Shit—I just—"

"It's right here on this paper, Dean. Don't lie to me."

True to form, a new piece of paper flickered on the desk, resting only a moment before it rose into the air, flitting anxiously over to the largest of the filing cabinets, this one labeled _Lies_.

"Oh, Christ," Dean groaned. Sam advanced on it. "Sam! Sam! _Don't_ go in there! Sam, I swear to God—"

"They're alphabetized? Dean. What the hell, Dean?" Sam flipped through the categories, _Cops, Dad, Girls_…

"Sam, stop it!" Completely unable to help himself, Dean felt tears springing to his eyes.

Suddenly curious, Sam flipped toward the end: _Teachers_—no, too far:

Sam gulped, hurt at the discovery. The folder labeled _Sam_ in the _Lies_ cabinet had to be the fattest one, comparable to the one labeled _Girls_. He looked up only long enough to frown at Dean, who knew exactly what the nosey little bugger had found. Dean broke into a cold sweat as Sam flicked through the file. On top was the sheet of paper which had only just taken up residence there: _I'm not scared_. The next one looked very heavily used, worn and yellowed and falling apart. It was spattered with blood and crumpled, almost illegible: _I'm fine._

"Jesus, Dean," Sam sighed, looking up at his brother, as if for the first time—ever. He seemed about to say something, but cocked his head at Dean. "Holy crap, Dean, what happened to you?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

Sam held up the folder of _Lies_ as evidence before kneeling beside the bleeding shoulder.

"Sam, you can't do anything about that in here."

"You've got a spike through your chest? Jesus Christ, Dean!"

"No—not anymore, I don't think. She took it out." He smiled darkly, his voice heavy with sarcasm: "I'm probably just bleeding out, now," as if this was better.

Sam frowned. "Seriously, Dean. Are you okay out there? Really?"

"I'm _fine_, Sammy, just—"

The _Lies to Sam_ folder, lying for the moment forgotten on the desk, flickered as the _I'm fine_ lie shifted itself so that it was now on top of the pile. Sam glared at him.

"Well, what is this, anyway, the fucking Spanish Inquisition? No, wait, you know what this is?" Dean tried, deciding the guilt-trip route had the best chance of success, "It's rape. You are mentally raping me, Sam."

Sam looked incredulous. "Aren't you being a little overdramatic?"

"I said 'no,' didn't I? That was the definition of rape last time I checked." Dean was livid. Leave it to Sam to be heartless at a time like this. With no agency left to him but sarcasm, Dean assumed the snarkiest, cattiest tone he could manage without puking: "Oh, sorry. You're right. I guess I was _asking_ for it with that short skirt I was wearing."

"Dean, stop saying that! I'm trying to save you."

"Sam, you're not gonna find anything! This telepathy thing is great 'cause I can talk to you, but you're not gonna find anything _I_ don't already know! I've been on a train, okay? I'm a prisoner. I've been unconscious. I'm fucking _blind_."

"You're what?"

"Blind, shortbus. She, I dunno, did something. Your best bet is to come get me from the outside. I don't know anything, and you're not gonna find it here no matter how hard you rape me."

"Dean, stop using that word. And I'm sure you know in here, somewhere. Some part of you knows. I just have to find it."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean couldn't be sure if he was awake or not, because when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. Only blackness.

He was still in a train chair, he reckoned by touch, hunched over pathetically, holding his shoulder. His face was against glass, and the window must still have been open just above his head, for the air whistled loudly and blew in his hair. He didn't think anyone was around him, but the thought that someone could be watching him—a demon could be watching him, and there was no way he would know—made him actually physically shiver. He was able to console himself that it was also drafty in this cabin, but only just.

Slowly, cautiously, with a whining groan, he straightened himself and sat up. He looked around, as if that would help.

"I-is anyone there?" he asked. No reply.

After waiting for his body to acclimate itself to sitting, Dean attempted standing, and managed it with a grunt of exertion and a great deal of pain. His whole body hurt, honestly: he could no longer give it any focus. Everything hurt. He waited until the dizziness passed, clutching the back of the seat in front of him, and then moved out into the isle. He headed towards what he hoped was the front of the train only because that was the direction his chair was facing.

When he reached what he suspected was close to the end of the cabin, Dean felt a rush of air and heard a door open before him.

"What are you doing?"

Dean, ripe with preservation instinct, flinched and stepped back, throwing up a hand in front of his face. "Nothing, I'm not doing anything." He sat down heavily. He wasn't in the mood to put up an air of bravado, much less fight.

The demon touched his face, and Dean shied from the touch, as much as he could without hurting himself. "Aww," she said sweetly, as if he was genuinely the cutest little puppy in the shop window. "Just as meek as promised."

"Yeah, I'm kinda starting to wish you'd just left me tied up with a rod through my chest."

"Oh, but I like this way so much more! You don't even _want_ to try escaping now!"

It was true. Fuck, it was true. Dean didn't like the way this conversation was going. "Yeah, look, um. Since you're so sure I'm not going to try and escape, you wouldn't mind leading a poor blind guy in the direction of the nearest fire hydrant, could ya? I didn't pull myself out unconsciousness to listen to you gloat, Meg. Nature calls."

She made light of it, and cooed about how proud she was that he was house-trained, but he was confident it was with an air of genuine disgust with humans and their bodily functions that she brought him to the bathroom. Dean was pretty sure it was a real bathroom she deposited him in. But the door was locked from the outside: he tried it. There was also a lock from the inside, which he bolted: two could play at that game. After taking care of his business (he hadn't been lying about needing to stamp a passport), he felt around for a window. There was one. Thank God.

Suddenly, he was back in the cold office, this time tied up and thrown in a corner. Someone was rummaging at the desk.

"Sam?! Sam, what the fuck, man, now you can do this while I'm _awake_?"

"Quiet, Dean, I'm onto something."

"No, Sam, _you_ quiet. Get the fuck out of my head, Sammy, this is the last time I'm going to tell you this."

Sam wheeled around in the chair and looked reasonably at him. Dean hated it when Sam looked reasonable. It meant he was about to be anything but reasonable.

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

That sounded vaguely like a threat. Like, _What are you going to do to try to stop me?_ Enough that Dean jumped to his _Options_ folder and found it empty. He had been raised and trained to fight demons, how to defend against possession by not allowing any chinks in the psychological armor. He hadn't ever been trained—how could he have trained?—to deal with this caliber of mental takeover. Certainly not from his very own _brother_. His psychic psycho little brother who could rip his brain in half if he wanted to. Dean knew he just wasn't strong enough to fight Sam if he wanted his way with his head. Sam _was_ the chink in his otherwise impenetrable psychological armor.

That wasn't what Sam had meant, but the manifesto appeared on the desk before Sam could continue: "You're a prisoner out there, Dean, being taken God knows where, and now she's blinded you as well. What are you able to do for yourself?"

Dean stammered as Sam's eyes wandered dangerously close to the incriminating page on the desk. "Well—I was going to figure something out."

"Sure. —What's this?"

Immediately the paper sprouted a neon orange sticky-note on which was written, _Do not read this_.

"Sam, don't read that!"

Sam read it. He looked at Dean exasperatedly, ignoring the fact that the bottom of the sheet of paper now continued _Oh my God now he's going to eviscerate my brain…_

"Dean, this isn't some sort of demonic possession. I'm still your brother. I'm just here for information. I'm not…"

Sam's face went from reasonable to thinking. And that was worse. Oh, God, how that was worse. A list of the ways in which Sam's transition from reasonable mode to thinking mode was worse, with accompanying examples, materialized in the upper-left corner of the desk.

Sam stood up and went to him.

"No," Dean said, crawling away.

"Dean—"

"No! I know what you're gonna ask and the answer's no!"

"How do you know what I'm going to ask?"

"This is _my head_, that's how! For the last time, Sam, get out. And _no_."

"Dean, I'll let you go right afterward, you know that."

"The answer is no, Sam."

The whole scene was ridiculous, really. Dean knew he had absolutely no bargaining chips. He couldn't even try saying he had his own plan for getting himself out, because he didn't, and he couldn't lie to Sam in here. He was lying tied up inside his own head, and was trying to wave his rapist away from second base. The_ Terror-Induced-Sarcasm-and-Inappropriate-Off-Color-Joke_-_Book_ at the top of the bookshelf exploded with_ Be gentle, it's my first time being possessed,_ and _It's not rape if you say surprise,_ among other gems.

"Sam, please."

But Sam steeled his resolve, frowning like the tortured soul he liked to think himself. He went to all the darkest corners and began to search. Dean laid his head back into the concrete and gave up, grimacing to keep himself from crying. He listened distantly to the shifting of boxes and spilling of papers, hoping to wake up but knowing he wouldn't.

Presently Sam returned with the laptop. It looked like Sam's old laptop he was always Googling urban legends and mysterious disappearances with, but Dean knew it was different. It only looked like their laptop, the real one, outside his head. This was _his_ laptop. This was _him_.

Dean groaned as Sam hacked his way into the system, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing again to wake up as the desktop background came up and the embarrassingly beautiful family picture taken right after Sam was born stared back: baby Sam making a stupid baby face in Mary's angelic arms, Dean, smiling the only genuinely happy smile Dean was sure he had ever smiled in his life, John embracing them all in his giant bear arms. Sam contemplated the image only a moment before moving on.

After a moment: success. Sam laughed and pointed at the screen gleefully. "Check it out, Dean! I can see! I can see through your eyes!" He wheeled around in the chair, pleased with himself. "That's good news: it's an enchantment or something. It means she didn't actually do anything to your eyes. That's great, we can work with this. Okay…so now to look for motor function…."

"So…you bein' so smart and all, I assume there's some brilliant reason why you can't just get me my eyes back and allow me to move myself."

"Dean, you're hurt. Let me help you."

"Is _that_ what this is all about, then? You're forcing your creepy little psychological needs—"

"Dean, you know that's not true."

"Well, what is it?"

Sam glared. He stood up and stepped away from the computer, making a beeline for where Dean lay. Dean sat up in alarm, wondering if Sam really had snapped and what he was capable of in here. But Sam only leant over him and untied his wrists and ankles.

"Be my guest," he said, in his reasonable voice, holding his hands out like a butler indicating the buffet table.

Dean cut his eyes at Sam but sat at the computer, trying to look as if he belonged here. It was weird to get his mind around moving his body like this—by thinking about it, actively, rather than the movement just coming when he wanted it—but after fiddling around for only a moment he got the hang of it.

He could see. He looked around at the bathroom he was in: the porcelain toilet, the stainless steel sink, the fake flowers at the window. Window. Big enough to fit through, maybe, if he ditched the jacket. And he didn't have much time.

If the first step he took was agony, the second step was agony tenfold. Somehow, the pain was magnified from in here. Or his condition out there had worsened. It didn't matter either way. In all his time as a hunter and experiencing pain in ever new and interesting ways, Dean had never learned a word for pain worse than agony, though he was sure he had experienced it. Excruciating was just a qualifier for pain. He wondered if excruciating agony was allowable, but he strongly suspected it was a little too trite, and anyway _he_ wasn't the resident grammar-Nazi.

He hit the ground like he had fallen from the second story. He managed to have the sense not to cry out, but involuntary tears practically squirted out his eyes in an effort to escape before he could stop them. He clutched at the toilet bowl with the desperation of one who had had eight too many drinks the night before and, because the pain wasn't subsiding and he was already down here, anyway, Dean threw up.

Sweat pouring down his body in rivers, Dean pushed himself away from the computer while his body, uncommanded, continued puking. He looked, trembling, up at Sam.

"I-it doesn't hurt when you do it?"

This just wasn't fair.

"No." Sam frowned. "But it—it'll still hurt you. But I—I can—the pain won't distract me. I can get you out of there, if you let me."

Dean grimaced. Somehow, this made his soul actually ache:

"Fine," he snarled.

"Dean. It'll hurt. A lot. I—I can't ask you to do this. If you want me to help you the hard way, I will. I'll try. It's your call."

"Oh, so _now_ it's my call?" Dean snarled. Of course Sam would chicken out at this point, cop out now and wash his hands of blame. Ha. Not on Dean's watch. "Forget it. You just better use lube this time."

"What?"

"You heard me. Just try not to kill me."


	5. Chapter 5

In some sense, it was a super-Winchester that was heaving itself out a tiny bathroom window and climbing up to the top of the speeding train. It had the raw, natural strength and physical perfection of Dean; it had Sam's intelligence, wisdom and prudence; and it was unique in that it was impervious to pain. The movements were jerky at first, but Sam soon got the hang of it, and running along the top of the train was easier than it would ever have been for him: Dean's marginally lower center of gravity always made these things easier.

Sam didn't stop to check on Dean, who was moaning and crying in the back of his head. He knew he couldn't stop. The sooner he got him out of this, the sooner he could let him rest. Not before. He infiltrated the engine room, where this super-Winchester made short work of the demon driver. Rigging the train to speed up and not stop, Sam then jumped Dean out of the cabin as gently as he could. It was nothing he wouldn't do, but this wasn't his car he was driving. He even made sure to land in a brushy patch and roll with it, but he heard Dean screaming in the back of his head.

Then he ran. Sam discovered, yet again, how annoying his own lanky frame was, especially for sprinting. It just came so much more naturally in this body. But Dean, behind him, in here with him, had stopped making noise. Could you go unconscious inside your own head? Trying not to think about it, Sam kept him running.

He couldn't keep him running indefinitely, however: he knew that much. Dean wasn't much good for long distance at the best of times. Sam pushed him into the trees and began looking around for signs. There. _Welcome to Shasta-Trinity National Forest Camping Grounds_.

Sam slipped back into his own body, leaving enough of himself still inside Dean to keep tabs on him. He laid him down in a cluster of bushes that was about as well-hidden as he would get, confirmed on Google that, yes, the place wasn't too far north of Sacramento, and then he stepped on the gas.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam was there in four hours. It was nighttime now, though, and for the life of him he couldn't find the sign he'd seen to determine exactly where he had left Dean. He tried calling out to him, physically and telepathically, but there was no answer. One more step inside his head couldn't hurt…

Sitting at the desk in front of the dimming laptop, Sam coaxed the unconscious body to its feet. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned. It was Dean.

"Get out."

Sam was so startled at his appearance that he agreed immediately. Thank God he was still here. "Um. Okay. Okay, yeah." Sam stood up, knocking the chair over. "I just—I just need you to stand up. I'm out there waiting for you. I just need to see—"

"I'll do it. Get out."

"Just wait until—I want to make sure you can—"

"I can do it, Sam. Get out."

Dean looked like hell. He was blue-white pale, with sunken eyes. Even in here the representation of him was covered in his own blood, and hunched over almost double. If he hadn't been standing before Sam just then, Sam couldn't have believed he was capable of standing up.

"Dean."

"Sam. Out." Dean closed his eyes, struggling with pain or tears or both. When he spoke, it wasn't Dean: "Please."

Sam was gone without another word. But it turned out he didn't need Dean to get to his feet: he saw where Dean was before he had even had a chance.

Rather, he saw _himself_. Exiting Dean. When Sam glanced in the rearview mirror, a cloud of black smoke jetted forth from Dean's mouth before replacing itself in his own body. Like an actual possession. Like a demonic possession. For the first time, really, since this whole twisted venture began, guilt gripped Sam.

But he had to ignore that, because Dean was struggling to get up, and he didn't need to. Sam fell out of the car and sprinted to the patch of brush, practically pouncing on his brother as he struggled to his knees. Dean flinched to be so accosted and attempted a pathetic self defense, but Sam held him fast.

"Dean, it's me. I'm here, I've got you."

"Sammy?" Dean coughed, teetered, gripped Sam's jacket. "Real Sammy? The one who's not gonna hurt me no more?"

"Dean…" Sam began, exhausted, threateningly close to tears.

"I'm just kidding, man. Sorry." Dean whispered distantly.

Sam gulped. "No, Dean, actually—I—I'm sorry…"

"Sammy, I can't see," Dean groaned: he might have sounded scared if he had been any stronger. Sam felt a cold sweat of panic flash through his brother's body before it went suddenly limp.

"It's all right, Dean. We'll take care of it. I'll take care of it. It's no problem. Easy." Dean's head had fallen against his chest where he struggled to hold him upright. Sam was strong, but Dean was built like a tank, and getting him to the car was a feat. Dean lost consciousness trying to help move himself, but woke upon being deposited in the front seat. Sam checked to make sure nothing was still bleeding—"Nothing left to bleed," Dean joked—"Not funny," Sam snapped back—and gave him a bit of water before buckling him in and sliding into the driver's seat beside him.

"All right. We're heading out. I think there's a motel about an hour back. Can you last me that long?"

Dean nodded, like he was a hundred miles away. "Zeppelin?" he whispered.

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Sure." Sam fumbled with the cassettes until he found _II_: easily Dean's favorite. As Dean tapped his fingers—the only part of him he could still move—to _Whole Lotta Love_ and drifted into unconsciousness, Sam pulled out of the _Shasta-Trinity National Forest Camping Ground_ and drove as gently as he could down Route 5.

Dean was—unfortunately and fortunately—conscious when they pulled into the motel. It was first floor and not ten feet from the car, but he naturally insisted he be allowed to half-walk himself inside. Sam allowed this only because he was himself so physically exhausted, and he was feeling guilty enough to grant Dean anything. But once inside the door of the motel, Dean's legs turned unexpectedly into jelly and didn't solidify again. Sam was only just able to drag him to the nearest bed. Sam ducked back out for the bags, but was back in an instant, locking the door behind him.

Sam wasn't sure he would ever forgive himself. Dean looked beyond hellish. And more than half of it was his fault: the corners of his mouth and nose and eyes and ears all trickled blood, sure sign of possession. That was before he took stock of all of the wounds given to him by the demons, which themselves were aggravated by Sam's actions.

He was safe again, though, now. Was that worth it?

"Sam?" Dean called when he woke with a start, reaching a twitchy hand out in the wrong direction.

Sam took the hand firmly in both of his. "I'm here, Dean. Easy."

Dean was blinking furiously and trying to lift his head. "I can't see a damn thing, Sammy."

"I know, Dean. It's all right, I'm gonna fix it," Sam said, trying to comfort him. "But I gotta take care of your shoulder and other stuff first. Just take it easy." He set to removing Dean's heavy jacket, lifting, supporting, manipulating, pulling as gently as he could.

"S-Sam," Dean continued after a moment of weary silence, as Sam settled him back to the pillow, "I—I am so freaking dizzy right now. Everything's sp-spinning. God—" For being so faint and weak, there was urgency in the voice.

"Okay, just relax," Sam encouraged, laying a hand heavily on his brother's head. "It'll pass, just relax."

Dean gulped. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

Sam wasted no time. Before a full second had passed, the vase on the bedside table was missing its flora and Sam had pulled Dean into a sitting position. The next second saw Dean puking his brains out, though it appeared that only blood and bile were coming up. He retched long after everything was gone, and before his body stopped going through the motions there were tears in his eyes. With his last bit of strength he pressed his still-swimming brainpan into Sam's chest, willing the dizziness to stop as he gasped for air. Sam did his best to help, stroking his hair and holding the head closer to him. The vomit, being comprised of so much blood, luckily didn't smell too bad. After the fit passed and Dean let his body go limp again, Sam helped him rinse his mouth and had him drink a little water.

"Better?" Sam asked, still holding him.

Dean snorted into his chest. "Yeah. Did I get ya?"

"No, you're fine. You didn't get anything on me."

"Damn, I missed."

"You're such a jerk."

"Well, you're a bitch."

Sam held onto Dean a moment longer to make sure the dizziness was gone before gently lowering him back to the bed. Although Dean's muscles strained briefly for pain, he went down quietly. Too quietly.

But Dean just wouldn't let himself pass out—or couldn't. His eyelids fluttered open often, and he would try to help Sam with whatever he was doing to him. He tried to sit up, tried to shift himself, and was helpful getting himself out of his blood- and sweat-soaked clothes.

"Sorry, dude" Sam murmured as he gingerly, awkwardly unbuttoned Dean's bloody jeans and slid them down his legs, but Dean only laughed.

"You seen me as naked as I'll ever be in front of anybody. No sense making a fuss now."

"Yeah. I'm, uh, sorry about that, too."

Dean didn't reply.

The shoulder wound was actually relatively clean, and looked high enough to not have gone through the lung. It had been ripped open and aggravated, and was swollen bad, but was cleaned up without much trouble. As Sam inspected the leg—which was broken—in two places—and tried to determine what he could use to set it, his eyes lighted on the radio: he flipped it on, guessing and hoping that Dean was still enough of himself to still want to listen to music. Sam took the groan and half-smile at a lucky _Fade to Black_ which crackled in over the radio as affirmation.

"Okay, how you doing, Dean? You cold? Hot? Hungry?"

Dean stirred. Speaking clearly took a great deal of effort.

"…Or tired, that's fine, you go back to sleep…"

"Cold," he whispered, although sweat stood out on his chest, and his brow was warm to the touch.

"Okay," Sam said, stripping the blankets from the opposite bed to lay over him. Dean nodded his thanks and gave a small cough followed by a grimace.

"Dean—do you think you could drink something for me? And keep it down?"

"You gonna drug me?" As a rule, Dean hated taking any painkillers stronger than Tylenol—something about ideologically detesting the helpless unconsciousness of drugged sleep. Not that waking him from normal sleep was any easier than waking the dead, but he was usually adamant about this stupid little thing.

So, "No," Sam lied, a bit too quickly, feeling like the biggest douchebag in the history of brothers as he said it. "No, just antibiotics." That wasn't a lie. It would have those, too. "And some sugar. When did you last eat?"

"Dunno," Dean said, "but…" he nodded distantly. "I'll keep it down."

Leery that Dean agreed so readily, Sam mixed the drink quickly. It started with grapefruit Sobe, mint leaves and other herbs (some of them of negotiable legality), including gin, antibiotics, and an unhealthy dose of morphine. As he knew Dean wouldn't let himself relax on his own, Sam didn't actually feel _too_ evil for trickling the drink down his brother's throat. And Dean, though he recognized the taste, drank, and didn't puke it back up.

"You totally just lied to me," Dean said.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't want to set your leg while you're awake." Sam sat close to him, the warmth from his body firm against Dean's cold chest. He let his hand rest gently on Dean's arm, so that he would be assured that he was there.

"Good call." Dean went quiet for a moment, so that Sam thought he had gone to sleep, but Dean kept himself awake long enough to lift his head from the pillow and ask, "You'll st-stay? Here?" No matter how crappy he felt, he couldn't quite bring himself to tell Sam to _stay here with me because I'm fucking terrified to fall asleep in case she comes back for me and I couldn't move even if I could stay awake, and Jesus Christ I'm fucking blind_, but Sam got the idea:

"Yeah, Dean. Of course." Sam squeezed Dean's arm.

"I-in case she comes back?"

"Yeah. I got your back."

Dean nodded, satisfied. Sam shuddered. His brother was actually counting on him—relying on him—_entirely_—to defend him. He was always the heavy sleeper, sure, and had trusted his life to him in countless ways before, but this was incredibly different. This was total. Even after what Sam had done to him. Especially after that.

After setting the leg and calling Bobby for a spell that would reverse the damage done to Dean's eyes, Sam caught a few hours rest lying curled up in the bed beside his brother. He shared the bed mainly because he had given Dean all of the blankets already, but also because he couldn't stand to be any distance from him while he was like this.

"Dude. The whole two-queens thing is just a front, now?"

Sam jolted awake, briefly confused, before catching the sight of Dean's eyes at half-mast, sparkling with amusement. Daylight filtered in through the drawn curtains.

"I had to give you all the blankets!" Sam protested.

Dean grinned, "Sure, Florence. I know you get in these chick flick moods whenever I get hurt, dude."

Rolling his eyes and deciding to ignore that comment, Sam sat up and crawled on his elbows closer to Dean. "How you feeling, man?" he said, feeling his brother's forehead and moving the dressing aside to check on the shoulder wound.

Dean gave an experimental groan but didn't make even a token effort to dodge the mother-henning: "I'm fine, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes—he was _never_ going to believe the "I'm fine" line from his brother ever again—but didn't push the issue. Instead he gave Dean his signature pout. "Well, you look like shit."

"Yeah, well, so do you."

Sam blinked, realizing. Then he laughed. That was the nicest thing Dean could have said to him.


End file.
